Saelric leans against the sideboard, folding one arm over the other with deliberate grace. “Only?” he echoes, as though the word itself offends him. “Lady Ellanise, what I offer is more than fair. Access to the Gilded Iris, through me, is not just a courtesy, it’s a key to a very exclusive gate. One only opened for those with titles or influence, and the coin to match.”

He shifts his eyes toward Teryn now, and for a moment, the veil drops just slightly. His posture, tone, and smile losing their performative polish. “This isn’t about ruining Eltrax, don't worry” he says simply, almost as if reading your expression like plain text on a page, “He took a risk by challenging my theory in public. A professional slight, of course, but an embarrassment all the same. If I wished to have him... removed, I wouldn’t need your help. I only want to ensure that his criticism doesn’t become precedent. My theory deserves further study without the stain of dismissal.”

Saelric shifts and pours himself a drink, “I can offer another arrangement,” he adds after a long pause, swirling the glass without looking back. “But it won’t come with the same guarantee of subtlety or speed. I could perhaps introduce you to one of my fellows on the Iris’s board… a minor functionary. They’d expect favors in return. More devious, lesser coin, lesser access. Certainly less privacy. You’ll find no shortage of strings on that path.”

He takes a sip and turns, eyes once again glittering with faint amusement. “But if you want this to move quietly and efficiently? This is your chance.”

Teryn:

Your eyes linger on him, reading between each carefully chosen word. You sense no outright malice, but there is a vindictive thread woven beneath his pride. He does not want Eltrax ruined entirely, but he certainly wants him discredited, buried behind red tape and revision, left to stew in his own doubt. This is, for Saelric, about restoring the perceived balance between them, and control. And more than that, he wants you to be the one who makes it happen.

Also, you recall the Vestraal Split. It is a major schism in arcane scholarship which started roughly two centuries ago, centered on conflicting theories regarding the massive runic monoliths scattered across the known world of Runewarren. The dominant view today is that these monoliths limit the flow of raw arcane energy, acting as stabilizing anchors to keep magic within a safe range for mortal spellcasters. Opposing scholars argued the opposite: that these ancient devices suppress potential and should be dismantled to allow true magical evolution.

Though scholarly in tone, the Split has long been a political and moral divide in arcane circles. To discredit a challenger’s position on the matter could shift academic favor and influence... which is exactly what Saelric seems to be angling for. His ambition is intact, and, if nothing else, unrelenting.

Rowan keeps his inexistent hat-brim low, but the talk of ledger lines sets his mind spinning like a windmill in a stiff breeze. One nib of ink for a whole field’s gate? he thinks. That’s sowing a single seed and reaping an entire harvest. He nods along in measured rhythm, making sure his agreement lands where the others’ words do, even if his timing’s occasionally a touch off.

Teryn exhales slowly, a breath caught somewhere between relief and weariness. Saelric had always been adept at slipping past his practiced calm—just as Teryn had learned to catch the flickering shadows that danced behind Vareth’s impeccable composure. They had once understood each other too well, and it seemed little had changed.

“This is why I’ve never cared for politics, academic or otherwise,” he mutters, rubbing a temple as the first thrum of a headache begins to press behind his eyes. “Though I must admit I'm curious to read your theory, once the edits are done.” His tone isn’t cruel, but it isn’t flattering either. He turns slightly in his chair, gaze sweeping the others before lingering briefly on Ellanise. “Unfortunately, time isn’t on our side. Saelric is making his intentions plain. That, at least, is more than most would offer.”

 Ellanise briefly considers the proffered alternative. It does not sound better. She takes a breath and, without looking at him, nods her ascent to Teryn.

Illmater forgive me, she thinks.

That is a strong word, the goliath thought as the wizard spoke. Though to be fair they did go through life and death. The fight at the warehouse could have been their last or they could have failed to avoid combat on the tunnel. Between that, sharing their pasts and not hating each other, maybe ‘friends’ was the right term.

Saelric’s request managed what Käinen thought impossible and made him consider the man even pettier, think of him as even lesser. His eyes traveled between host and elves. If Teryn was fine with the deal, then he would have no reason to oppose it. Besides, as the streets had long since taught him, they could always get back at the *******. Rowan was right, though. The whole proposition sounded too good to be true. A knife might just be coming for our backs, but that was a thought better left unsaid. At least for as long as they remained on the estate.

”I take we’ll get the entrance after the deed is done which leads me to ask what proof you will want that the job was finished.” The knowledge of what happened should be enough to guarantee their reward. That or an attempt on their lives. ”As far as I’m concerned we are good to go as soon as we hear that and the details of the alteration.”

Saelric gives a satisfied hum, low and velvety, like a cat purring. He steps toward his desk with leisurely grace, trailing one hand along the curve of a brass globe before selecting a small, leather-bound folio from the bottom drawer. “You’ll find the ledger in the Office of Historical Theory, tucked inside the personal vault of one Archivist Eltrax. Access requires bypassing an arcane sigil keyed to faculty badges. You’ll need to… get creative,” he says with a deliberate glance toward Käinen and Ellanise. He sets the folio on the desk and opens it to a specific page, sliding it to the party. “Here. The passage in question. His rejection of my theory, published in the university’s archives. You’ll revise his commentary to reflect a hesitant endorsement instead. Frame it as though his mind changed late in the process, respectfully, reluctantly, but publicly. I’m sure you’ll manage something artful.”

Then, in a colder, quieter tone, he adds, “Oh, and there’s an ink bottle in his study with the initials ‘R.E.’ etched near the base. Leave it on the shelf. That should be enough to make the right people ask the wrong questions.” His smile sharpens like a scalpel. “Once I hear rumors of Eltrax’s wavering and see his comments amended in the archives, I’ll issue you a personal letter informing you that your names should be granted entry to the Gilded Iris under my recommendation. Clean, quick, and thoroughly deniable.”

Teryn accepts the folio with a cool nod, his fingers lingering a moment too long on the soft leather as if weighing more than just its physical weight. He flips to the indicated page, skimming Saelric’s requested 'corrections,' and feels a strange hollowness settle in his chest. That it doesn’t repulse him—this quiet rewriting of a scholar’s legacy—gives him pause. Maybe once it would have. But now? Now, answers feel more valuable than absolutes.

He closes the folio and lifts his gaze, meeting Saelric’s with measured calm. “We’ll do it,” he says plainly. His tone then sharpens ever so slightly. “I trust you’ll keep your end of this deal with perfect discretion. Because you know as well as I do...the fey can be remarkably vindictive when bargains are broken.” The faintest flicker of humor tugs at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes stay cold. He seems ready to leave unless the others have further questions.

Ellanise watches the transaction with veiled concern. One crime to undo another. Was this the right thing to do? She supposes it is if what the professor has said is in fact true. She starts to feel unwashed and is ready to leave as quickly as possible.

Rowan keeps his tongue behind his teeth, but his thoughts churn like a plow through clay. All this fuss for a few lines in a ledger? he muses. Saltin’ another man’s field so your own crop looks taller—nothing more. A scholar worth his seed would scrape off that tainted topsoil soon enough, yet Saelric only needs the delay. Still, better a blot of ink than a blade in the dark; plenty of folk would’ve asked for blood, and this lord’s just after a season’s head start. In the grand tally of sowing and reaping, that feels near-enough fair. Rowan nods once, steady as a fencepost, and lets the bargain settle like fresh-turned earth.

Saelric’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a slight stiffening, a twitch in the corner of his mouth as Teryn brings up the fey. Whether it’s fear or just discomfort, it’s hard to say, but he doesn’t comment. “Of course,” he says smoothly, with the air of a man seeing guests out after a pleasant dinner. “Discretion is the soul of reputation, after all. You’ll find the university’s archives more porous than they’d care to admit…though I recommend acting before the week’s end. Eltrax is due to speak at a minor symposium soon, and he tends to recheck his citations beforehand.” He steps to the side, gesturing toward the door. “Do let me know once it’s done. I’m always curious to see how others handle precision work.”

The exit is as polished and impersonal as the entrance: elegant hallways, dutiful servants avoiding eye contact, and a final parting bow from the elven butler from earlier. As the gates of House Vareth swing shut behind you, the sound of the city seems to return all at once, as if you’ve been released from something quietly suffocating. Back on the clean cobbles of the noble quarter, the day is still ahead of you.

"Well," Ellanise says, feeling like she can breathe properly again, "that was unpleasant."

She touches Teryn's arm. She wants to question him — to find out how he could have chosen to be in that house willingly. Instead, she asks quietly in Elvish, "You okay?"

Teryn's shoulders relax as they exit the estate and he breathes a sigh of relief. It takes him a moment to register Ellanise's touch, but when he does a slight reassuring smile graces his features.

"Yes, I...Ah, I thought I was ready," he murmurs in elvish with a self-deprecating chuckle, continuing in common, "I could say he wasn't always like this, but...He wasn't always like this to me, and that was all I cared about back then. Still, his brittle pride suits our purpose."

“Everyone makes mistakes and you’re in the company of two former criminals. You’re far from the worst of us but it is incredibly rude to switch to a language you expect most of us don’t speak.” Käinen sais only then betraying his knowledge of Elvish. “Anyway, I’m thinking if we can’t screw that piece shit.” The goliath continued, holding his chin. “Maybe we can talk with Marsh to have our intervention on the archives framed as a test of the faculty’s defenses, motivated by the theft on his tower and ordered with the sole purpose of proving that the overall security should be restructured. This way we can rectify the alteration after it happens and show the world who the brat really is. Even if we don’t do that, I think Saelric may want to get rid of us. Our knowledge of what truly happened would forever be a threat to his image otherwise. And there is the matter of time. Can we really wait the days until the symposium?”

For all that they knew about the tome, he didn’t think so. That left them with just one other option. One that seemed to be more dangerous. A day for elves to face their demons, he mused expecting that similar moments would come for him, the halfling and the dwarf.

Rowan taps a thumb along his belt, brow furrowed like a field left too long unplowed. “Käinen’s right—time’s a-wastin’. If we’ve got to wait for that ink to sprout rumors, Veyla could’ve carted the whole orchard away before the first gossip seed even cracks.” He lets out a low whistle. “A single brushstroke sounded like easy pickin’s, but not if the crop won’t ripen for days.”

He glances down the polished street, then back to the group. “I’ve no silver-spoon path into the Iris myself, but maybe we don’t need to sit on our hands ’til Saelric’s weeds take root. We could press on his other offer—have him whisper to that lesser functionary tonight—riskier strings, aye, but faster. Or…” He shrugs. “We could stir our own soil: nose around the Iris’s suppliers, stable hands, kitchen folk. A cart of linens rolls through those doors every dawn, I’ll wager, and none of ’em wear fancy seals.” He spreads his hands. “Just thoughts in the furrow. Point me where you want the plow and I’ll lean in, but I’d sooner get seeds in the ground today than watch ’em rot in the sack.”

"'Get rid of us'...? I don't think Saelric would overreact quite that much. He could make life...inconvenient, certainly, but if we're useful he doesn't have much reason to." Teryn seems equally comforted and unnerved by his own logic.

"If we can speed things up, all the better. I'm not sure what kind of hoops Marsh would need to jump through to get such an exercise approved, but it couldn't hurt to try."

At Käinen's chastisement, Ellanise narrows her eyes at the goliath before catching herself and visibly calming.

After listening to the men, she runs her hand down the braid hanging over her shoulder. "We shouldn't wait," she says. "We need to get it done tonight if possible. Change the text, then get the ball rolling for someone to recheck the text tomorrow. Oh, and leave the ink bottle. I suppose we need to come up with a plan for lifting that."

She clearly looks troubled.

Teryn watches Ellanise carefully, noting the tension in her voice and the way her fingers trace her braid—a subtle tell he's come to recognize. “I understand the desire to get this over with,” he says gently, “but we can’t afford a misstep.” He taps the folio lightly against his palm. “If we rush in without an idea of the security measures around Eltrax’s vault, we risk exposure or capture. We should speak with Marsh first. He might know who has access and what kind of wards we’re dealing with."

He glances between his companions. “Once we’ve cased the Constellarium properly, tonight is possible. But not blind. Let’s not mistake speed for precision.”

“I agree with speaking with Marsh but to be honest, I don’t think there’s a way to get paid for this favor tonight.” He said after the Warlock, looking to the other former criminal and back to the him. “We need to take the faster way, dangerous as it is.”

They were too far behind on the search for the book and didn’t seem fair to comply with Ellanise’s reservations after making Teryn face some of his past, putting him into a humiliating position. Not to mention that if Marsh was right all the crime lords on the world weren’t half as threatening as the magic inside the tome. It was easier stealing on the streets, Käinen almost missing his days guarding peregrines. Almost. He preferred a bed, soft and warm, to the ground cold and hard, proper food to dried rations. The promise of payment and the potential of more work weren’t bad either.

He moved his eyes to the halfling then the dwarf, waiting for their opinions. Maybe he was too focused, too hasty and too unkind. If not, then most of them would agree with the suggestion and they could frustrate Saelric’s wishes. A metaphorical punch to substitute the literal one he could not to give the butler.

Rowan had been quiet, thumbing the edge of his belt like a man checking the ripeness of fruit still clinging to the vine. But at Käinen’s words, he gave a slow nod—firm, like the tilt of a weather vane before a storm. “Aye,” he said, voice low and even. “I reckon Saelric’s folk spin a fine web, but we ain't got time to sit in the center waitin’ for flies. Better to sow two furrows at once—if we can carve up that text tonight, do it quiet and clean, it gets things movin’. But come mornin’, we’d best have eyes on a second field.”

He glanced around the group, teal eyes steady. “The Gilded Iris may not open easy, but there's more than one gate into any orchard, if you know where the fence is weak. Could be we find another way in while the forgery’s still warm. Saelric gets his piece, but we don’t bet the whole harvest on it.”

Rowan gave Käinen a small nod, half gratitude, half grit. “I’m with you on the pace. Too many hands already diggin’ near that tome. If we wait too long, we’ll be pickin’ through empty soil.”

His gaze swept to Ellanise, softer now. “Ain’t sayin’ we go in blind, mind—just that we walk while the sun’s still up, not wait for it to dry the crops. If Marsh’s got wisdom on the wards or vault, I’ll hear it. But I’m not keen to let another night pass with naught but ink on our hands.”

The sun dips low behind Luminaar’s skyline as you make your way back through the winding city streets, with the warmth of day bleeding into the cooler hush of evening. The white spires and slate roofs of the noble district give way to the more familiar academic sprawl: arched bridges, ivy-draped towers, and the glimmer of lanternlight beginning to flicker to life along the paths of the university grounds. By the time you return to the weathered steps of Professor Marsh’s office, the shadows begin to stretch across the courtyard. A soft breeze carries the scent of parchment and lavender oil, comforting, familiar, as the sun begins to set in the background. The door to Professor Marsh's office, though unlocked, sits slightly ajar. Either left open by mistake, or perhaps forgotten in haste. A rare oversight, this time around.

Inside, the office is dimly lit by the amber glow of the reading lanterns. The clutter is exactly where you left it, and you can hear the faint rustle of pages and the scratch of quill on parchment deeper within. Professor Marsh glances up from his desk as you enter, blinking through his half-moon spectacles. “Ah, you’re back. Good, good.” He sets down his quill and gestures vaguely to the far wall, distracted. “Apologies for the lack of greeting. Vasha seems to have made herself scarce. Vanished into her studies this morning and never came out, though she’s never told me what has her so entranced. I do hope it isn’t something dangerous.”

He rubs his brow, clearly exasperated but more tired than genuinely concerned. “In any case, you’ve returned. I take it your meeting with the nobleman was…eventful?” He gestures toward the sitting area and leans back in his chair with a creak. The light from outside spills through the stained-glass window, casting deep amber and plum hues across the shelves. “Now then—what can I help you with?”